Moments
by thepandathatrawrs
Summary: There are moments when an external force pushes her through the motions - like Daddy forcing her to train  -, and there are moments that Clove controls that are truly hers - like deciding to trust Cato. These little moments define who she really is.
1. The Reaping

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. Only the additional characterization of the tributes and the parts that are not extended upon the author are mine.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 1: The Reaping (and After)<span>

When Cato lunges forward to volunteer as tribute for Devon Starling, a sniveling excuse of a boy that she could easily take out with one slash of her knife, Clove can't help but curl her bottom lip into a sneer. She catches herself and quickly bites down on the soft flesh, but it isn't quick enough – by the look on her father's face that stands out in the painful glare of the sun, he's noticed her expression. Her back straightens and she tries to hide her clenched fingers by shoving them into her pockets, but realizes belatedly that she's wearing a short dress drenched in the same ridiculous shade of pink like the District 12's silly, trilling escort's wig.

Her father's face darkens as she wills herself to flatten out her fingers. '_So much for remaining professional'_, she silently berates herself.

Despite the boy's heavily-built stature, she can barely hear his footsteps as he springs on stage, muscles tensed as if the games have already started. She half-wishes she has her knives by her side, if only to cut off the obnoxious smirk he's flashing to the crowd.

Mayor Flunnel finally stops droning about the Treaty of Treason – she doesn't understand why they have to go through that tiresome ordeal, every citizen from District 2 have it memorized word by word – and it's time for the tributes to shake hands. They meet halfway and she shakes his outstretched hand before quickly withdrawing them back to her side.

However, she doesn't fail to notice the rough bumps on his palm, along with the way his giant hand almost completely swallows her in its grasp. "Good luck," he says, "You're going to need it." She reminds herself that they're in front of cameras now. Every little movement she does will be immortalized in film forever. So she shoots him a sardonic smirk of her own (just because she hates them doesn't mean she can't do them) and enjoys watching his face contort in pain, if only for a second, when her sharp nails bury themselves into his skin.

He doesn't hesitate to return the favor by crushing her fingers. She has to consciously stop herself from flexing her hand after their handshake.

_'That son of a bitch - he's strong.'_

But of course he is. She'd seen him during all her nine years at summer training – or rather, summer _camp_, filled with eager, bloodthirsty kids _voluntarily _thrust into an abandoned military facility to get themselves _acquainted_ with various weapons and combat skills to their liking. He's gone to these camps longer than she has, seeing as he's two years older than she is. That's two more years of experience he has over her, and coupled with his build, agility, and strength, she knows instantly that he is a sure winner of the 74th Annual Hunger Games.

Sure, she'll be safe with him and the other Careers (she's not stupid, she knows that District Two is definitely not the only district that offers their children _summer camps_)… until the last weakling is weeded out. Her future in the Games looks bleak after that.

She follows the Peacekeepers wordlessly as the two of them are conducted to different rooms. She is ready to leave to the Capitol, ready to start training and seize up the competition and ultimately slit their throats with one graceful trace of her knife, but they tell her it's not time yet. There are goodbyes to be said, so Clove scowls for a moment before settling on a nearby couch. The tip of her fingers swipe at the pretty icing on the cookies that are displayed on the silver platter close to her, and she's in the process of licking her finger clean when the door creaks open.

Her flock of friends from last year's summer camp enters the room first. They know better than to assault her with hugs (or any physical forms of comfort, for that matter), so they instead opt to gush about what an honor this is, what fun it'll be, how they'd die for a chance to represent District 2 in such a public, national event. Clove's smile is tightly drawn, growing whiter and whiter until they completely lack all color as the mindless chatter continues.

_'If it's such an honor, why didn't you volunteer?'_ Her internal accusations darken her expression, disgust muddying her cloudy thoughts. _'You're all cowards, all of you.'_ Brown eyes flick to each of their faces. They are all drawn and silent at her expression of thinly-veiled distaste. None of them are stupid enough to miss the visible loathing that shapes her jeering mouth.

Sixteen year old Kayla, with her penchant for spears. Seventeen year old Camille, who would've surpassed Clove in knife throwing had she not been constantly distracted by the sight of shirtless males around her. Sixteen year old Josephine, with her reluctance to handle anything remotely deadly, but religiously attending these training sessions anyway because her "mother knows best".

And finally, eighteen year old Arianna. Arianna, who should've taken Clove's place as tribute, but didn't. It's Arianna that Clove scrutinizes the longest, until the other girl's bowed head finally lifts to meet her eyes.

Clove's bottom lip curls out again. A part of her hopes that she does die in the arena, if only to make Arianna burdened with guilt. With the exposure to weapons and rigorous training, this girl could easily rival Cato, both in physique and skill. Clove had no doubt that, if the situation ever came to it, Arianna could defeat Cato without much effort. But she understands how the will, the temptation of the idea of life beyond the promised death of the Hunger Games can lure a person away from the televised slaughter.

It still doesn't stop Clove from hating Arianna any less.

Precious time is trickling away. Clove is the first to stir from the thick blanket of uncomfortable silence. Her footsteps are muffled by the soft, carpeted floor. She wrenches the door open – under different circumstances, the startled faces of the Peacekeepers would've at least brought a snicker out of her – and gestures stiffly to her friends.

"Thanks for visiting," Clove says. Her words fall flat, but she doesn't care. She doesn't have it in her to bother about feigning sincerity in her last few hours in her beloved district. The Peacekeepers don't have to usher the girls out; with their faces flushed with what Clove hopes is embarrassment, they leave quickly without another word, their eyes averted to the fluffy carpet that blends in with her dress as they exit.

The Peacekeepers are too slow for her liking, so she asks them to send in the next set of visitors. While she waits on the velvet couch, her bare feet gently skim across the carpet. The motion soothes her heightened nerves, and by the time the familiar faces of her family arrive, Clove is almost back to her usual deadpan self.

Her mother's hazel eyes are brimmed with red, but her makeup disguises any other traces of tears. Her two older brothers have similar looks of pride mingled with envy. Her father… Clove lets out a breath she didn't know she's been holding in until her father's arrival. He looks displeased, as per usual. She's not surprised by his oh-so-familiar frown that he always bears around her, but for that one fleeting moment, she'd stupidly assumed that this last chance with her family would be different.

That he'd be proud of her for representing him and the family and their district in the Hunger Games.

"You can win this," her mother says. Clove's composure almost cracks when she smells the familiar perfume of cinnamon and vanilla that envelops her with her mother's embrace. It reminds her of the simpler times where she would cuddle with her mother after a particularly nasty session of mishandling her set of knives and just lose herself in the heavy scent. Over her mother's shaking shoulder, Clove looks at her father dead in the eye.

"Stay with that Cato boy," he gruffly instructs. "He's your best chance at making the Top 8 – maybe Top 3, even." Her brothers nod in sync with the stony man, and this time she manages to prevent the oncoming roll of her eyes. She doesn't miss how he omits the part where she'll win the Games.

Her father will be betting on Cato with the rest of his Peacekeeper generals, she knows that as much.

It's Clove who first extracts herself from her mother's arms. The heady scent is starting to muddle her thoughts. "I _will_ come back alive," she says, voice unfaltering. Like herself, her family has never been good with concealing emotions, and this is no exception. One look at her father's reaction says it all: _I wouldn't bet on you._

She gives her mother one last hug (she keeps it brief this time), her brothers a half-smile that doesn't reach her eyes, and her father a firm handshake, before she once again yanks open the doors to let her family out. Her father's mustache bristles at her rude gesture, but everyone has to leave anyway. Their visiting minutes are up.

Clove sends one of the Peacekeepers an impatient, questioning raise of an eyebrow. She wants to leave, and she wants to do it _now_ – she sees no point in these senseless goodbyes. The Peacekeeper shakes his head 'no', and brings in one last visitor.

This time, Clove's smile is genuine. A little boy with a tuft of light blonde hair immediately throws his arms around her midsection at the first sight of her, and she stumbles backwards from the contact. "Woah there, Alex," she says when the doors finally close with a sharp click. "How's your training going? Have you moved away from your training knives yet?"

Alex pulls away from the skirt of her dress to crane his head up at her. "Not yet," he mumbles. She ruffles the top of his feathery head lightly. The motion soothes her more than it comforts him, and she's flashed back to the time when she couldn't shake this young boy off her tail. Now – well, now he's her pride and joy, her protégé who will surely surpass every other potential tribute when he finally turns twelve. "Are you really gonna play in the Games?"

Her smile dims slightly. "Yes, I am," she replies. She stops staring at the ceiling long enough to ask wryly, "Are you going to miss me?"

It tickles when he nestles his face back into her stomach again, but she makes no motion to stop him. Being one of the camp counselors (she likes to brag about it every now and then how she's the _youngest_ leader to ever take charge of the knife activities), she's met many children. Although Alex is a new addition this year, there's something so terribly endearing about his eagerness to learn and please others with his naivety that she wants to smother him in hugs and kisses. She realizes with a pang that she'll never be able to teach him how to hit a moving target directly in the heart again.

_'No, don't' think like that. I have every chance of winning. Maybe somebody else will kill Cato before I have to.'_

"I'll miss you," he finally answers. The voice is so muffled that she almost misses it. Those three words have a melting effect on her. Her teeth clamp down on the insiders of her cheeks to choke back down the strangled cry that threatens to rip out her throat. Instead, it comes out as a pathetic whimper that makes Alex's face peer up at hers in alarm.

"You'll have other camp leaders to train you until I'm back, Alex." Somehow she maintains her composure before it can slip any further, even managing a little smile (crooked and shaky, but a smile nonetheless) that reassures Alex slightly.

"Until you're back," he adds. She coughs this times before she replies, voice barely above a whisper.

"Until I'm back." They stand in their standing hug for the rest of his visiting minutes – him clinging onto the slippery fabric of her dress while reminding her what a tribute should and should not do, his expression so somber for an eight year old that she's amused. She's quite content for this moment to freeze forever, but the Peacekeepers open the doors too soon.

Irritation flares through her chest. Her fingers ache for her favorite knives with the custom-carved handles that fit snugly in her hands. She bends down and kisses the crown of his head while the Peacekeepers push him out. "May the odds be ever in your favor!" she hears his high-pitched voice call out, before the doors cut off the echo before it dies out.

She doesn't really remember much else after that. She's dimly aware that the bright flashes of cameras are almost blinding at one point when they enter the tribute train, and how Cato is soaking up all the attention drawn on them. She remembers taking much longer than usual in the shower, and even longer still when she finally decides on wearing a plain white shirt and tight black trousers to lunch. It'll take them a few hours to reach the Capitol, but she's famished.

She vaguely remembers finally meeting her mentor, Enobaria, and how Clove had stared at her gold-capped fangs with fascination before returning to her dessert. Next to Enobaria sits Brutus, who had been making twisting motions with his hands every now and then while talking intently to Cato. Her contact with Cato remains minimal until they finally watch a recap of the reapings in a spare compartment.

Flopping down next to Cato after Brutus chases her out of the only armchair in the room, only a few faces make an impression on her. The girl from District 1, only because Cato lets out a long, low whistle when the cameras focus on her beautiful face. The monstrously big boy from District 11 – Cato tenses next to her when they take in his size, and for once Clove wonders if District 11 will finally have another victor after all. Then, the volunteer from District 12. Everyone leans forward towards the screen when the volunteer's desperate shout rings in the compartment.

Enobaria's carefully plucked eyebrows rise high on her forehead. Brutus lets out a low chuckle, and comments, "Finally, somebody in District 12 has grown a backbone." Cato glances sideways at Clove.

"She's mine," she says flatly before Cato can claim this tribute as his, her dark eyes still glued onto the flickering television. Brutus laughs again. The dim lights shine off Enobaria's golden fangs. But there's silence between the two tributes. Clove remains fixated on the screen long after the anthem has died out, pretending not to observe Cato all this time.

Finally he says gruffly, "What if I kill her anyway?"

"Then I'll slice you as easily as they cut off an Avox's tongue." Slowly, she turns her dark head away from the television and face him fully, a little sardonic smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Brutus says something to Enobaria that makes her mentor nod curtly, but Clove is focusing on how Cato's nostrils flare out with every breath, how his hands are gripped tightly over the velvet cushions. Still, she isn't scared. As soon as she'd uttered those words out loud, she knew that she'd been a fool to already consider herself dead.

She had no qualms about killing anybody standing in her way.

To her surprise, Cato's locked jaw relaxes, and he grins. It's not one of those many arrogant smirks she's seen from him over the course of the day – this is strangely, unnervingly genuine. "Feisty for a fifteen year old, aren't you?" He stands and stretches, his muscles visible through the tight red shirt as he does so. "Then I get the boy from District 11."

"Deal." She stands and stretches as well, the joints in her shoulders and elbows popping as her palms extend towards the chandelier that's dripping with crystal droplets above her. Standing right next to him makes her notice how much smaller she is in comparison to his massive bulk, but she takes comfort in the observation. That means she'll be faster than him. "Are we going to stick with 1 and 4?"

He smirks and says, "We'll see." Brutus sticks his head back into the compartment.

"Leave the scheming up to us, and get ready. We're a few minutes away from the Capitol."

The last thing she remembers of that tiresome day is kicking the last pink ruffles of her reaping dress under the bed before gladly stepping out to the cacophony of roaring and wailing and screaming that crashed over them like a tidal wave descending upon a young tree.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Plot bunnies. Why do they like me so much? Nonetheless, hope everybody likes how the story's started so far, and reviews are greatly appreciated (more so than the silver parachutes)!


	2. Fighting For District 12

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. Only the additional characterization of the tributes and the parts that are not extended upon the author are mine.

* * *

><p>Chapter 2: Fighting For District 12 (and Winning)<p>

How that girl from District 12 got that score of eleven, Clove will never know.

She's been sitting on the arm of a plush couch for the past hour, only rising every now and then to pick up the butter knives she's been throwing at the dartboard. To her left, the massive glass window is scribbled with the black of the night sky, occasionally splattered with the Capitol skyscrapers that blink red every now and then, to remind the hovercrafts of their presence in the large expanse of darkness. It's late, and there's more training to be done tomorrow (or she supposes _today_, seeing as it's well past midnight). Still, she doesn't budge. Fatigue hasn't settled into her bones even after the best show of knife throwing exhibited in her life for the Gamemakers.

She doesn't deserve sleep. Not after some girl from a low-life district upstaged her.

She growls in frustration when the blunted knife refuses to lodge itself in the dartboard (the bullseye is already peppered with dents from her previous attempts, but no knife has stuck), falling to the floor with a loud clatter. Stupid, useless things – but she hadn't found anything sharper to play with.

The steak knives were taken away as soon as dinner was over. It's ridiculous how the Capitol takes such measures to confiscate any object that could potentially turn into a weapon, when the tributes were going to fight each other to death in a few days anyway. Even the dartboard didn't come with darts. How useless.

Besides, if she wanted to kill her fellow district partner, she would've done so by now. Her killing senses have been honed so sharp that she knows how to make a weapon out of her surroundings. The vase nearby can be almost as sharp as her knives if shattered. The glass paperweight on the table can bash somebody's brains out with a couple of hits. And if she really needed to, her uniform nails can gouge an eye out without a problem.

Her hands are empty again. With a sigh, Clove moves away from the couch to gather the knives in her arms. She wouldn't rest until one of them stuck into the damn target and _stayed there_.

Once she resumes her position on the couch arm, she eyes the dartboard, her tongue peeking through the corner of her lips in concentration. The blood-red circle that's barely nicked by the rounded points of the knife taunts her. She grips a butter knife and weighs it in her hands before throwing it sharply.

The knife hits the center of her target dead-on – only to bounce off harmlessly upon contact.

The metallic echo of the knife hitting the cold tiles is accompanied with a short, barking laughter that she's begun to associate with Cato. The scowl is already deeply set in her face as she turns around at the additional sound; her suspicions are confirmed when she sees the wide-set shoulders that heave up and down with every snicker. "I think District 2 made a mistake putting you as the leader of the knife throwing section."

She lets out a little snarl of displeasure as he approaches her, but otherwise doesn't bother to dignify such a ludicrous statement with a proper answer. He sinks heavily in the couch she's perched upon, and she stiffens at the lazy smirk sent her way. "Here – hand me one of the knives, will you?" He extends his hand towards her, but hers grip the set of knives tightly, protectively.

"What are you doing up so late?" she asks instead. His hands fall inches away from her exposed calf, and she subtly shifts to put more distance between them. He doesn't notice. Cato's jaw is clenched as he leans back into the couch, looking reluctant to speak. She presses him anyway. "District 12?"

"I can't believe she did better than me."

"What'd you show the Gamemakers?" Clove has seen him train long enough to know that Cato excels in every physical activity there is. She also knows his specialty lies in swordsmanship. He's an even bigger threat with a sword in his hand, no matter how big or small.

His answer doesn't surprise her. "Defeated some trainers in hand-to-hand combat. Gave him a black eye." He pauses to laugh again, obviously still entertained by the memory of beating a man to bloody pulp. "Then I slaughtered a bunch of dummies until they stopped me. What'd you do?"

"I hit all the moving targets square in the heart. Blindfolded." She relishes how the smirk is completely wiped off his chiseled, arrogant face as he falls into silence. However, her own satisfaction is short-lived when she remembers that the girl from District 12 had pulled an _eleven_. How could anything upstage what she'd shown?

"They wouldn't have given you a ten if they saw your measly attempts at throwing now." Before she can scathingly retort back, his hand grips over the hand that's still closed over the knives, and she pulls back harshly. His laughter fills the empty living room again as he twirls one of the butter knives she'd released instinctively, before hurling it at the dartboard.

The knife stays there, securely burrowed in the spongy material.

"Not bad, eh?"

The overbearing tone that laces his voice infuriates her. Gritting her teeth, she slides off the couch arm to retrieve the lodged knife, knuckles turning white as she does so. "You missed the bullseye," she points out, dark eyes flashing. She tosses the traitorous knife carelessly at Cato. It clinks noisily at his feet. "You have strength, but no finesse."

"It wouldn't matter in the games, would it?" he drawls, "If it was a real knife – not this crappy thing –, it'd wound my target long enough for me to slice their head off."

When she sits back down, she settles on the couch this time, her shoulders brushing Cato's as she does so. "You aim to wound. I aim to kill," she says simply. He turns to look at her properly, his blue eyes unreadable. Watching people suffer isn't her style. She prefers a clean, quick death. Why would anyone want to drag out the inevitable anyway? A death is a death – the faster she kills everyone in the Games, the better.

But then the number eleven flashes across her eyes once more. Well, maybe she can make an exception when it comes to that girl.

"I get to kill the girl." Her train of thought is broken when Cato suddenly breaks their silence. He's staring at her intently with the smallest traces of a sardonic grin ghosting over his lips.

Irritation flares in her again. "Over my dead body," she says shortly. Her fingers flex over the silver handle of the knife at the thought of anybody else but her shoving a knife into District 12's gut.

"I'll have to kill you first, then."

He moves so fluidly that she doesn't realize what's happening until she's pinned under him horizontally on the furniture, her head painfully colliding against the arm of the couch. His hands reveal their brute strength as they hold her shoulders down, and he has her legs locked between his thighs. No amount of struggling will shake off this boy that must be more than twice her weight, but she tries anyway, thrashing her limbs about, but to no avail. He doesn't budge.

Her face is flushed red, but it's not from panic. She's humiliated, annoyed at him for making her look so _weak_ in that one simple movement of his, but even more displeased with herself for not reacting quickly enough. Cato's face hovers above her with that obnoxious smirk and eyes that shine like they always do when he's preying on a smaller victim during the training camps, ready to kill. One brutish hand finally lifts from her shoulder to place itself on the base of her throat. The heat from his fingers makes her squirm again as they press slightly.

"Dead," he announces, and she glares at him. It's like she's in the training camps all over again, where one calls out _'Dead!'_ after they corner their sparring partner into a situation that would mean sure death in the real Games. "Now I get 12."

When she makes no move to protest or struggle out of his grasp, he finally pushes himself off of her and gives her one last smirk of finality. "Goodnight, Clove," he says as he slowly swaggers out of the living room, his muscled back radiating smugness at his win.

Or rather, his supposed win.

Without another sound, she deftly picks up one of the dulled knives scattered on the ground. With the knife held fixedly in her freckled hands, she doesn't think twice about jumping onto Cato's back. He jerks back in surprise but she's still latched onto him, one arm coiled securely around his neck while the other hand holds her own blade barely a hairbreadth away from his throat. She can feel one, thick vein in particular that jumps out from her attack, throbbing under her long fingers. She relishes how his body betrays his immediate shock, if only for a second.

She won't have many chances to smell fear from Cato in the arena.

"Dead."

"Get off of me," he warns through gritted teeth. Despite herself, she complies, although she takes her time to chuckle breathily into his ear as she slides off. He turns around, his own face red now under the dimmed lights. She doesn't bother looking apologetic, because she's not. He's embarrassed? _Good_. It's what the brute deserves after pulling such a stunt on her.

"That's dirty play."

She scoffs at him. "Nobody wins the Games by playing fair." The grip on her butter knife loosens, and she twirls it loftily between her fingers.

"Don't you think for a second that I wouldn't have killed you in the real Games."

His conceited, confident remark does little to make her pointed smile falter. "Cute," she drawls, and she can see the flush spreading down to his neck at her sarcasm. "That's what you get when you don't immediately kill off a tribute when you have the chance."

She thinks that the sight of Cato storming off wordlessly to his room gives her more delight than the thought of District 12 drowning in her own pool of blood.

As long as Cato continues with his parade of arrogance and underestimating the other tributes, she knows she can win the 74th Annual Hunger Games.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I know it's a short chapter (compared to chapter 1), but I didn't want to jump around all over the place. Thank you for all those who've reviewed (you all have encouraged me to pump out this chapter!), and any criticism or further comments on this chapter/story are very much appreciated!

Unless there are other scenes that you'd like to read about, I'll be going straight into the actual Hunger Games itself. :)


End file.
